Monday, September 25, 2006

Soccer Dad: Chopped & Screwed

What the hell happened? I intercepted a pass. The ball went high in the air and I ran after it. My plan was to run along side it, bring it back and settle it, waiting for midfielder support. As I went to gather the ball, my foot slid over it, stuck in the turf and my body kept going. I thought I was dreaming because I NEVER get hurt. I hit the ground and looked down at my ankle, which is turned in an unnatural direction and realized: I’m f*cked. Guys around me are yelling to call 911. I lay back, grab my head, and try to deal. I breathe like I never have breathed before.

Yet for all the commotion and pain, I tried my best to be zen about the whole thing. I thought about Maceo a lot and about Iraqi children losing limbs in bombing runs. I thought about Wifey going through labor without an epidurl. The fellas tried to keep things positive, reassured me the ambulance was coming to which I mentally started singing “911 is a Joke.” When your foot is turned a different direction, time goes by s-l-o-w.

The fire department finally shows up. I get smacked out on morphine, which doesn’t really take the pain away, but helps dial down your anxiety. By the time I hit the hospital, I’ll have ingested 15 mgs of morphine. By the time I get to x-ray, which included two soul sucking bone resets, I’d take 12 more. The prognosis: deformed ankle, 90% dislocation, bone fracture. I get a steel plate and six screws and a placard that says I can park in the handicapped spot.

I also got a night at the hospital, sharing a tiny room with two grumpy old men, one without a hearing aid, the other in for what sounded like a colostomy procedure. Didn’t get to sleep much as periodic rounds kept me up. I really missed being home in my bed and couldn’t wait to tear out the IV’s and get discharged.

I get sent home with a Limbaugh-sized script for painkillers, and a temporary brace, which I exchange in ten days for a hard cast. When I got discharged, home was the best anesthesia. Being able to feed Maceo, read and play with him did amazing things for my psyche. I started getting hungry again. My new boss is bringing my computer over today to set me up so I can do some things and get paid. I’m pretty much back to normal, except for the walking thing. (And constipation. To paraphrase ATCQ: My shits are hard like two-three day old shit!)

As for chasing Maceo around, it’s super frustrating. I can’t put any weight on the leg, which immediately excises things like picking him up out of the crib or changing diapers. Wifey is going to have double duty for a while until I get those powers back. Back to rehabbing…

11 comments:

Man that sucks. Who the hell put that bottom screw in, it's like 45 degrees off and then there's that floating one left behind for shits and giggles. I wish you a speedy recovery and share in your pharmaceuticals with your permission.

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